


usque ad milia basiem trecenta, nec numquam videar satur futurus

by tiasworld93



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Blindfolds, Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 22:31:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18061397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiasworld93/pseuds/tiasworld93
Summary: "Do you understand the rules?""Yes, Doctor."(No spoilers for s6)





	usque ad milia basiem trecenta, nec numquam videar satur futurus

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say? I watched series 6 (no spoilers) and decided that some smut was in order. Sheer, unrepentant, kinky smut.
> 
> Thank you to IncoherentPiffler for the beta and putting the punctuation in the right places! Any remaining errors are entirely my own.

Pressure on his wrists, bound tightly. Cool air across his skin. Spread wide, limbs to each corner. Darkness, unseeing, eyes covered.   
  
He can hear movement, the gentle shuffle and rustle of clothes.

  
Then a voice.   
  
"Do you understand the rules?"   
"Yes, Doctor."   
"You are not to orgasm, and you are to tell me when you're close, you understand?"   
"Yes, Doctor."   
"And your word?"   
"Tiger, Doctor."    
"Good boy."   
  
A gentle touch to his foot, unexpected- he almost flinches. He's hushed, soothed, as the fingers touch a little more firmly and stroke across his arch. Then back to gossamer as they wind across his foot, across the binding at his ankle and along his calf. Invisible curlicues decorate his body as trailing fingers paint his skin.    
Up to his knee, along his thigh, dancing close to and away from the sensitive inner. Around his hip, dipping up his side, pausing briefly when he creases and twitches in silent laughter.   
  
It's all so slow, so achingly slow, as these teasing fingers trail their way around the perimeter of his body. They make their way up one arm, and pause for a moment to stroke lightly along sensitive fingers. By the time they make make their way gently across his face, up to his other hand, his skin is prickling with sensitivity. The fingers are unceasing, relentless, and make a languorous path back down his other side.   
  
He sighs a little with relief when they reach his other foot, his silent remark making the fingers dart round to the sole, tickling briefly. It's a surprised huff of air that comes out.   
  
Then the touch is gone. He's floating, tingling, but grounded by the sheets at his back and  bonds holding him down. Anticipation races through him and he shivers.   
  
A teasing lick to a nipple and he arches off the bed. A brush of fingers up his inner thigh and he gasps, hips rolling for touch. A thumb strokes across his lips, a gentle kiss presses to his jaw. The teasing gossamer fingers return to his upper arm, twisting their way into his elbow, then he jolts as teeth scrape across his hip.

On and on, gentle and firm touches dancing across his body in a seemingly random pattern. There's little indication of what is yet to come aside from the occasional shift of the mattress and faint whisper of moving clothing.

 

By the time the merciless hands and mouth leave his body, he's panting and hard, desperate to be touched with constant pressure.

A quiet moment, and only the sound of breathing reassures him he's not alone.

 

He arches upwards as a slick hand wraps around his cock, stroking him firmly. It doesn't take much, climbing for that edge and thrusting desperately into the welcome touch. He remembers his instructions and almost groans in exasperation.

“Close!” he bites out.

 

The hand leaves, and a quiet grunt escapes him. He's left thrusting into air as hands make soothing strokes down his sides and legs as though calming a skittish horse.

Then the hand returns to his prick, light fingers brushing up and down his length and over the tip. Yet more fingers trace over his balls, then downwards over sensitive skin to trace around his opening. Hips press down towards them but the fingers stay maddeningly light.

 

The fingers on his prick get firmer, until the hand wraps around him again, and a few strokes take him to grinding out his closeness. 

Again the hand disappears, soothing him instead.

 

Again and again, he's taken to that edge then soothed away. The first time it's a mouth rather than a hand, he shouts in surprised pleasure and the edge comes quickly.

It's after the eleventh time (he almost can't help counting, both balm and torment) he has his relief torn away and frustration bubbles into defiance. He lets himself climb closer and closer without saying a word, but those clever hands know him too well. They pull away as his thighs tighten. The sharp pain of a pinch to his cockhead and a slap to his inner thigh counter mild admonishment.

“Behave. I know you know better.”

 

Somewhere around fourteen, fingers return to his arse, a light relief from the ache in his prick. They open him up as slowly as they've done everything else and let him come to an edge on one finger, two, three. He reaches it on fingers alone at one point, expert fingers seeking his prostate,  rubbing gently. He's never managed that before and he's not sure he ever will again.

 

At some point he tries to stop counting, hoping it will help, but his brain just insists. The frustration of nineteen comes through as tears, soaking into and leaking from under the blindfold. A gentle stroke across his shoulder and down his chest.

“You're doing so well, good boy.”

 

He gets a rest then, feeling the mattress shift and hears the rustle of clothes being removed. He latches onto identifying each item by sound alone, which helps take his mind away from his overwrought prick. He dips slightly as weight settles again beside him. A kiss is pressed to his mouth, and he kisses back gratefully, greedily. It's a slow, lazy kiss, stealing his breath away and claiming his mouth, claiming him.

 

The kiss ends and he blindly tries to follow the mouth but he's pushed back into the bed. Hands trace back down his sides and the weight redistributes, settling between his legs. Those ever teasing fingers return to his inner thighs, drawing waves across his skin. It's those gentle fingers that meander up his prick and draw him up to the edge again, until he's panting with the effort of holding off his climax, breathing out “I'm close, I'm close, I'm so close.”

The hands take pity and give him a moment to breathe, then find slick and return to his arse, three fingers pushing back inside. The other hand returns to his cock, firmly squeezing another edge from him.

 

It almost burns now, and he's grateful for the change when his ankles are untied, legs bent, and a pillow pushed under his hips. 

His head tips back when he's entered, that relentless pressure filling him. He grinds downward onto it.

He's fucked in slow, deep strokes, one hand holding his hip for purchase. A slick hand returns to his cock, stroking in time, and it only takes moments for him to reach the edge. The hand leaves and the cock filling him stills.

His hips roll, desperate for more stimulation but none is forthcoming. As his climax slips away, the thrusts begin again.

 

Twice more he's brought to that straining edge, panting out, “please, please Doctor, please”. But twice more his satisfaction is taken from him.

The next will be twenty-five, and he hopes, he hopes. But he knows he doesn't get to choose, this is out of his hands. And when the hand leaves, with only cool air behind, he moans in aching desperation.

 

This time the thrusts speed up, pounding into him, but his prick is untouched. He's grasped with a hand, a firm hold he's pushed into with each thrust. That edge comes closer and closer, and he's begging with raw noises and faint cries of “please”.

 

It's a rough voice that replies,

“Not yet. Wait.”

He holds off his climax as well as he can but he's so so close, he's been so close for so long and he can't decide if he's straining for edge or straining away.

 

“Come.”

 

He does. A hoarse scream rips itself from his mouth. His limbs shake as satisfaction hits. He splatters across his stomach as the last few thrusts shudder through him. Faintly, he hears a grunt as hips slam into him and hold there and shiver. 

 

They hold still for a long moment, panting for breath, trembling with aftershocks.

 

“Alright?”

He hums in assent, and is gently prodded in the thigh.

“Words, please.”

It takes him a moment to find “Yes. Good.”

 

“Good lad. Will you be alright where you are for a moment?”

This time he gets away with an “ _ mmhmm _ ”.

 

“Alright. Count to one-hundred for me, and I'll be back.”

This is a trick they've used before- it's too easy to panic when the high has ended and you're bound and alone. He counts, and gently stretches his loose ankles.

He gets to eighty-seven before he hears Max pad back into the bedroom. Something is placed on the bedside table, then a warm cloth swipes over his abdomen, cleaning him up gently.

 

“Hands or eyes first?”

“Hands.”

 

The bonds at one wrist, then the other, come free. He gently wiggles his fingers and wrists, as Max rubs the muscle around his shoulders. After a few minutes he can return them to his sides, and he rolls, curling into Max's reassuring warmth. His partner shuffles down to join him in repose.

 

“Leave this on for a few moments longer then?”

“Please.”

“Of course. You did very well, you know. Do you know how many times that was, in the end?”

“Twenty-five, without, I believe.”

“Ah, so you were keeping track. I wonder if we can beat that.”

 

Morse shudders in mingled fear and delight at the idea. 

 

“Not for a while though, hmm? You  _ were  _ lovely to watch.”

 

They lie quietly for a few moments, just basking. He feels Max shift and prop himself up.

 

“Alright, close your eyes for me, if they aren't already.”

The blindfold lifts away, and there's a glow behind his lids. He burrows his face down towards the bed and a hand strokes through his ruffled hair. 

 

“A few minutes, then I need you to to sit up and have some water.”

He knows it will be a little longer than that, that they'll doze for a while. But he's safe and warm, and in the arms of someone who cares, so he lets himself drift.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sorry for the cheesy fluff.
> 
> Let me know what you think! Comments about realism welcome, since I'm running entirely on theory here and have a different set of equipment to these two...
> 
> Title from Catullus 48, which can be translated as "I might kiss you three hundred thousand times, and never be sated" (poetic translation, courtesy of PoetryInTranslation.com)
> 
> Full poem:  
> Mellitos oculos tuos, Iuventi,  
> si quis me sinat usque basiare,  
> usque ad milia basiem trecenta,  
> nec numquam videar satur futurus,  
> non si densior aridis aristis  
> sit nostrae seges osculationis.
> 
> Iuventius, if I were always allowed  
> to kiss your honey-sweet eyes,  
> I might kiss you three hundred  
> thousand times, and never be sated,  
> not even if my kisses were more  
> than the crop’s ripe ears of wheat.


End file.
